


Flyboys

by ninemoons42



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Space, Blow Jobs, Crossover, Dogfights in Space, Established Relationship, Fighter Pilots, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by Photography, M/M, Pilots, Semi-Public Sex, Space Flight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	Flyboys

title: Flyboys  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 2790  
fandoms: McFassy, Battlestar Galactica (2004 TV series)  
rating: NC-17  
notes: So over on Tumblr I kind of had a [brainwave](http://tmblr.co/ZIJNMxJbZqSo) that had to do with the Viper and Raptor pilots from the reimagined BSG series, specifically that two-sleeveless-top thing they wear under their flight suits, and I said I'd write fic for anyone who would draw fanart of Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy in those uniforms. This fic is for [orangegalaxy](http://orangegalaxy.tumblr.com), who sketched [this](http://i361.photobucket.com/albums/oo60/Teiruzu/request.png) for me. Thank you so much, bb!  
McFassy allusions everywhere in this one, and handwaving of the Galactica canon, and, oh yes, bonus Apollo and Starbuck cameos!

  
There’s a kick to it, a certain physical and mental impact that comes with being blast-boosted into space, with waiting until the very last possible second to fire up the engines. A split-second of weightlessness, endless three-dimensional free-fall - and then, control, motion, kinetic energy.

It never fails to make James McAvoy smile.

“Check-in, _Galactica_ , Conman is away, awaiting escort.”

The voice that replies to him is steady and steely and in command. “Conman, you’re up and clear on the DRADIS.” Lee Adama. Apollo. “Good hunting, and be careful out there.”

There’s no one to see him salute, but James does it anyway, lining up to get a clear view of the command ship and its battle scars, to toss the salute in the general direction of CIC. “Thank you, sir.”

“ _Galactica_ out.”

James’s hands tighten on the sticks. He’s counting in his head. A full minute has passed. More than enough time to launch the next Viper.

_...Three, two, one...._

And sure enough he hears a familiar rasp on the line. “Check-in, _Galactica_. Bones away.”

“We’ve got you, Bones. You and Conman take care of each other out there.”

“Sir,” Michael Fassbender responds - and then he’s pulling his Viper up, wingtip to wingtip with James, and the lines in his face are easy to read even between the feet of space and stardust between them.

James switches to their private language, the hand signals that they exchange every time they’re on sortie together. /Are you ready for this?/

/Let’s find out./ And he watches through the distorted reflections of glass and distant light as Michael’s frown fades away, to be replaced by the smile that James knows only too well, the smile of a man on the hunt, the smile of a man determined to do anything. Whatever it takes.

James grins and throws his Viper after Michael’s, the two of them looping lazily around _Galactica_ and several Colonial Fleet ships, before coming back around at a faster pace and reorienting for their scouting run.

The mid-sized asteroid looms ahead, and James flicks all the switches on the blue-bordered panel on the left side of the cockpit. Scanners. They’re the best in the fleet when it comes to survey/scout missions - and it’s not just because James has had a lot of practice at this, not just because Michael has rocksteady hands whether he’s wielding a gun or a Viper.

They’d never even so much as set their eyes on each other before this, living their separate lives on distant colonies before...before the nukes, before the Cylons.

Now James trusts his life to Michael first, to Starbuck second, and to _Galactica_ a distant third.

And he holds a secret next to his skin, between his flesh and his heart, the first and only secret Michael has ever entrusted to him:

Michael’s always held his own life in his own hands - but now that every man and woman and child’s duty is to stay alive, he has to let someone watch his back, and there’s only one man he trusts in the entirety of the human race to do that.

*

The scanning run is uneventful, and James sighs and relays signals back to CIC. The asteroid is just a chunk of rock, and there isn’t even any water on it. Water would have made the effort worth it, no matter how much or - more likely - how little there would have been.

They’re almost back within sight of the fleet when the proximity alarms go off - shriek of stressed metals, James’s quiet hiss of breath, and he immediately burns into evasive, watching through the looping endless dark of space for Michael and for whatever it is they’ve actually found.

“James, follow me,” Michael says.

He goes. No questions asked. That’s what they do. He chases the afterburn image of Michael’s Viper, all the way back to the asteroid, twisting closer to the surface, using the sparse terrain for a shield. He’s already switched to the other set of scanners, and - he draws in another sharp breath.

He reports to Michael, first. Again, this is what they do. “Raiders. Half a wing at least, and there are likely more, just out of range. That could mean there’s a basestar....”

“Signal to _Galactica_ , and when you’re ready, we burn back.”

“Signaling,” James says, gritting his teeth. “ _Galactica_ , this is Conman, we have contact. Bogeys in sensor range, coordinates on their way. Prepare to engage something big.”

“Roger that, Conman.” Kara Thrace - Starbuck - is on the line, this time. Unmistakable brittle voice, easy arrogance, thin undercurrent of worry. “Can you make it back?”

“Not without leading them directly to the fleet. It’s possible we’ve got a basestar incoming. Can’t see it yet, though; DRADIS will be better at tracking it than this unit, because if I can see them, it’s too late, they’re too close.” James’s Viper is equipped with the best scanner relays the fleet could scrounge up, so he knows whereof he speaks - and then there’s him: he seems to have an instinct for estimating enemy strength. No one understands how he does it, least of all James himself, but everyone listens to him when he makes his best guesses at the number of incoming bogeys, and _Galactica_ allocates its fighter assets accordingly.

“You and Bones will have to wait on us,” Starbuck warns.

“We’ll hold, Starbuck, like we always do,” Michael snaps. “Just get here as fast as you can.”

“Like our frakking asses were on fire, Bones. Good luck. Try not to die.” The connection is severed with a loud click.

“It always has to be like this,” James says.

“Nothing’s ever been easy. Not since the nukes,” Michael mutters.

At least he’s talking back. James doesn’t like it when Michael is silent in the middle of a fight.

He had not been amused when Michael had joined the duels against the Raider they all knew as Scar, back when the bastard had still been hounding them. Silent, deadly chases. He had been unable to quash the sense of relief threaded into his sadness, after the last dogfight, when someone hadn’t come back - but that someone had not been Michael, and that was all he had to hang on to.

James nods, even though Michael probably won’t be able to see him, and this time when he curls his hands around the sticks he knows he won’t be allowed to let go. “The same as always?”

“Except that we need to come back alive,” Michael says.

“We say that every time. It doesn’t always work.”

“Death won’t stop me fighting.”

“ _Thank you_ for that,” James snaps.

“...I’m sorry.” Michael actually sounds like he means it.

“Shut up, Michael,” he says, and maybe he’s a little fond, now. He can forgive Michael any number of gaffes and verbal faux pas so long as they both stay alive. “Do I follow you or do you want me to lead this time?”

“Follow me,” Michael says, again, and it’s as simple as that. Life and death in the balance, and he and Michael are the weights in the scales of their own lives.

*

“Starbuck, Conman, you’ve picked up a couple of tails. Bones?” James calls, eyes darting up and around, watching all the directions his canopy will let him.

“I see them,” Michael says. “Double-chop on my mark. One. Two.”

“Mark,” he and Michael say, and part of him watches Starbuck throw her Viper into a long, winding, deceptively slow barrel roll and he streaks into the space she leaves behind, shooting the first Raider clean off her back - and Michael hisses triumphantly as he takes the other one out.

“Thanks, both of you,” Starbuck says - and immediately pulls up, streaking off toward another Viper - he can’t quite tell which one it is - but he lets her go, watches as Michael burns past after her - and James lets him go by, eyes tracking backwards until he can see the area that Michael’s just left behind.

James’s heart leaps up into his throat.

Faint blur of movement in the space behind him, and in pursuit.

Michael hasn’t seen them coming yet.

James throws himself forward. A brief shout compounded of rage and fear wrenches itself from his throat - and he’s streaking forward, just enough to overtake Michael’s Viper, before he reverses direction and now he’s barreling straight toward Michael.

Closer. He can see the reflection-flash of faraway fire on the other Viper’s canopy. Closer. Engines screaming in protest. Closer. He can see Michael’s face, the whites of his eyes - and if he looks up, just a little bit more, he can see the three Raiders converging towards the two of them.

Timing, timing, it’s all going to come down to the timing. Fire missile one, fire missile two, take out the one in the middle with a concentrated burst of gunfire.

It’s now or never - he’s pretty sure he’s going to ram Michael if he doesn’t move - and thankfully Michael gets out of his way in a hurry, dropping straight down, and James screams again and his fingers are moving over the triggers.

The Viper jolts around him as he launches his first missile, as he launches the second, and he’s flying through twin fireballs and he’s almost on top of the third Raider when it finally explodes.

There’s another explosion. It’s too close.

James’s Viper begins to spin.

He doesn’t let go of the sticks. He fights for control.

Someone is yelling at him. “Don’t you do this, you idiot! Hold on!”

He recognizes the voice, and he does.

*

Everything hurts, when he opens his eyes.

Gunmetal gray everywhere. Threadbare white sheet draped over his legs.

James wiggles his feet. It takes an effort, a heart-stopping few seconds. Pain shoots up his spine all the way from his toes.

He collapses back down. He’s _okay_. He can still fly.

He murmurs Michael’s name, once, before the darkness takes him again.

*

“Free to go,” Cottle says at last. “How a fool like you manages to stay alive after a stunt like that is beyond me.”

James makes a face, and gingerly gets to his feet, and zips his flight suit partway up. “Thanks,” he says, sarcastic and grateful at the same time.

“No sense telling you not to do anything stupid. And here I thought you were smarter than the other pilots. But at least you’re off duty for a while. Rest however you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael is standing next to the door into the infirmary. The sleeves of his flight suit are knotted haphazardly at his waist. There are deep shadows under his eyes.

James tilts his head at Michael and his ruffled hair, reaches out to brush wayward dark strands away from Michael’s forehead. “I was the one in sickbay, not you.”

“And it should have been me,” Michael says. His voice is hoarse, as though disused, or as though he’s been weeping. “Why didn’t you leave me to them - I _deserved_ to be hit for not checking my six.”

“Not your fault you couldn’t see the bogeys,” James says as he steps closer to the other pilot.

Michael lets him - flattens himself to the wall to let James into his space.

“I’m okay. I think.” James tries a smile. Something along his face pulls uncomfortably, and he reaches up and there is a bandage on his cheek, and he shrugs. “ _Mostly_ okay.”

Michael growls quietly, and seizes James’s wrist in a punishing grip.

They’re moving, and he lets Michael pull him down corridor after corridor, and no one looks at them twice - two pilots, neither of them dressed for flying, and one of them looking like he’s got places to go - they weave around the slower ones, deeper and deeper into the ship, right past the door to Joe’s and then into the warren of narrow spaces on the next lower deck.

Michael finally stops, and they’re tucked into a corner somewhere, and the ship and this corridor close protectively around them.

“Where are we,” James murmurs.

Michael eases himself back into a niche in the wall, and pulls James in after him. His smile is much stranger, because James doesn’t even get to see it often, because it’s a much softer smile, a much more focused one.

“Come on,” Michael nearly whispers, “come here, James.”

He does, as if pulled into the other man - he slides into the cramped space between Michael’s feet. He puts his hands on Michael’s chest, and under his right hand he can feel a thundering heartbeat, and under his left he can feel Michael breathing a little more quickly.

Control, he thinks of Michael’s control, and he thinks of it unraveling here, just a little.

Because of him.

He doesn’t need any words - he just smiles back, and he moves up on his tiptoes to touch his forehead against Michael’s - and down again on his heels, gravity pulling at him, Michael’s gravity a slow steady force.

James smiles and kisses Michael, and at the first touch Michael groans and threads his hands into James’s hair, silver strands among the dark.

Michael kisses desperately, kisses like he’s trying to climb into his skin.

James lets him in. A breath, a sigh, the two of them remembering their limitations, a brief second of separation - and this time it’s James who takes control of the kiss, slower and sweeter and no less possessive. His thoughts are a loop: _Michael, mine, never without, belong_.

He needs more - he needs to _touch_ , and he slides his hands up and around - one hand around Michael’s throat, the other already pressing a bruise into Michael’s shoulder.

Michael touches him, too, and James breaks off a kiss, fighting the impulse to shiver himself apart. All Michael has done is slide his hands into his flight suit. Fingertips ghosting over the shirts, over James’s stomach, his nipples. “Please,” he says, not knowing what he’s asking for.

He gets it anyway, Michael gives it to him: moving his hands around to the small of James’s back and rucking up the shirts, his fingertips ten points of heat on James’s burning skin.

James pushes forward, grinding into Michael, and Michael lets out a strangled laugh and braces himself against the wall.

He wants to kiss him, but he’s more desperate to touch him, and James drops his hands, drops gracefully to his knees, keeps looking up at Michael even as he’s working on getting him undone.

Michael lets his head thump softly back against the wall as James takes him in with hand and mouth. Masculine musk undercut by steel and leather and the sharp tang of moonshine. He licks and he holds on, and he opens his throat and Michael goes down easily, and James hums encouragingly around him and Michael _keens_.

Soft sucking sounds for the briefest of eternities, Michael’s labored breathing - and then.

“James, please,” Michael says, strangled words.

James shrugs off most of his flight suit, braces himself with his free hand at Michael’s hip, and hollows his cheeks - and Michael comes, hard, his face twisted in ecstatic torment.

He smiles, makes sure Michael can see it when he wipes saliva and come off his mouth with the back of his hand.

Michael half-falls to his knees, whispers, “Turn around” - and then he’s holding James to his chest, his arm heavy around James’s shoulders, wiry muscles bunching and shifting under the scarred skin.

He reaches into James’s flight suit with his free hand, huge and warm around James’s cock, and begins to stroke - slow sweet heavy pressure, wrist twisting _just so_ , and James is dragged toward the edge, touch after inexorable touch. He’s almost forgotten how to breathe. He can’t keep looking or he’ll finish too soon. “Michael,” he whispers, pressing his cheek into the arm that’s now holding him up. “Please, please....”

“James,” Michael says, and that finishes James off, he’s tipping forward, falling over the edge.

After, as he catches his breath, he looks up into Michael’s determined eyes and Michael is all but growling at him. “I can’t owe my life to anyone - to anyone but you.”

James smiles, and kisses him, harshly this time. “I intend to hang on to you, you frakking stubborn bastard, for as long as I can. Because I won’t live a second longer than you.”

“Nor I you,” Michael says, and the scales stop for just a moment, life and death and _Galactica_ and the Fleet and James and Michael in the balance.  



End file.
